


Ninety-Nine

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because He Owes Her, F/M, Massages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 23:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11542671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: “Nope, it’s ninety-nine, and I didn’t say I wanted them all at once, Jesus,” she smirks, “And Iabsolutely didcarry you.  You were unconscious, you don’t get to fight me on the details, my dude.”  He just gives her an unimpressed sort of hum, but he doesn’t argue further, so she takes her win where she can.  “Pretty sure if I ask for them all at once, it’s called something else,” she mumbles thoughtfully.“Stop, oh my god,” he groans.





	Ninety-Nine

“Ninety-nine,” Wynonna says firmly but, she realizes, apropos of absolutely nothing.  She realizes this when Dolls stops carving the pear she’d tossed him before collapsing into the couch next to him.  Probably because she’d seen Firefly too many times, she doesn’t ask _why_ he never just bites into the fruit like she does, but for some odd reason the image comes to her completely outta left field.  Accompanied by juice dripping down his chin.

That… shouldn’t do it for her.

“Um, red balloons?” he guesses, slipping a slice of fruit off of his knife and onto his tongue.

“Massages,” she says, shaking her head to banish _that_.  “Ninety-nine massages because I had to knock your ass out and then carry you to Shorty’s.”

“Okay, so, first of all?  You did not carry me to Shorty’s,” he replies, mouth set seriously but eyes warm.  “And ninety-nine massages is ridiculous.  Unrealistic.  Pick a better number.”

“Nope, it’s ninety-nine, and I didn’t say I wanted them all at once, Jesus,” she smirks, “And I _absolutely did_ carry you.  You were unconscious, you don’t get to fight me on the details, my dude.”  He just gives her an unimpressed sort of hum, but he doesn’t argue further, so she takes her win where she can.  “Pretty sure if I ask for them all at once, it’s called something else,” she mumbles thoughtfully.

“Stop, oh my god,” he groans.

“I want one tonight, though, so…”

\--

The first one was actually back when he was her boss.  She hadn’t really meant it—well, okay, she _had_ , but mostly she liked to push his buttons a little, and at that stage had still really liked bugging him.  (She may not be done really liking bugging him.)  She’d just whined, “Dolls, please, my _everything_ hurts, just a quick little, tiny, _eensie_ neck rub.  I promise not to tell your bosses or, like, HR or anything.”

She hadn’t really expected him to sigh and round the table and dig those long, strong fingers into her hair and she _really_ hadn’t expected it to send not-entirely-work-appropriate bolts of lightning straight through her as he’d worked at her scalp.  She definitely hadn’t expected to completely turn into putty when his nails had grazed her neck, or sigh when his thumbs rubbed slow circles at the base of her skull.  She remembers how hot her face had felt.  She remembers the smug curl in his voice when he’d asked, too close to her ear, “You alright there, Earp?”

“M’fine,” she’d mumbled.  More than fine—fantastic, stupendous, wonderful, _miserable_ because she knew it’s the kinda thing that only happens once before it ruins your damn life, like winning the jackpot.

Nicole _definitely_ thought they banged when she’d seen her later that night, hair mussed and cheeks red.  Wynonna let her—it was the least humiliating option she could come up with.  She is so boned.

\--

 Freshly showered and in the comfiest—and probably, like, the least alluring, but she’s kind of accepted it—pajama top and shorts she owns, she walks out into the living room, tying her hair up into a messy knot, and cocks her brow expectantly at Dolls.  He’s seated— _sprawled_ —comfortably, still on the couch, and she can _tell_ he’s pretending he doesn’t notice her.  Fighting a smile, she clears her throat.  Finally, he tilts his head _just_ enough to peek up at her and she holds his gaze until he puffs out a quick breath.

“On the floor,” he says, defeated.

“You’ll be rubbing my ass next,” she replies.  Looking thoroughly unimpressed, he tosses the back cushion next to him onto the floor between his feet.  Now, she does smile as she drops onto it and knocks into his knees. 

His fingertips press into her temples and it’s… nice, the slow, firm circles he makes are _nice_ but not much _more_.  It’s not until he moves onto where her jaw hinges—that’s _awesome_.  When she says so, he hums.  “You gotta stop grinding your teeth, Earp.”

She tilts her chin back until her hair hits the couch so she can peer up at him, “You can tell that just by rubbing my jaw?”

“No?” he replies incredulously, “I can tell because I’ve worked with you for like a year.”  Nudging her with his knee, he continues, “Sit up a little.”  He shifts a little, working into the spots just behind her earlobes and she has a sudden, ridiculous thought about whether or not she washed there.

She might moan a _little_.  She feels him hesitate for half a second and, _in_ that half-second, she seriously considers begging him to keep going.

This may not have been the best decision.

\--

For, like, a month, she tries _really_ hard not to milk it too much.  Which she thinks is probably not working, but at least she’s _trying_.  Things are weird enough without her begging him to _goddamn touch her_ every second of every day.  It’s not even just having _him_ there—it’s that, like, everyone’s just _there_.  And… Wynonna doesn’t know that it’s necessarily a _bad_ weird.  She might even, deep down, like having a full house.  Sure, it forces her to actually grocery shop every once in a while, which she hates, but it feels almost normal.  The house is suspiciously quiet when she pushes through the front door, and even though things have settled down (or maybe _because_ things have settled down) she has a moment of worry.  She finds Dolls laid out across the couch, nose in a book with a dubious cover, so at least _some_ of that fades.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asks lazily, somehow turning a page _sarcastically_.

“I’m waiting for you to offer to help me with the _groceries_ , you—”

“Do you need help with the groceries?” he interrupts, book still in front of his face.

“Yes?”  Her arms, weighted down with admittedly too many of the bags, start to ache as he peeks over the top of his book.  “Finish your page and come help me—there’s still a bunch of stuff in the car,” she says lightly.

There may be the _littlest_ hint of triumph when she hears, from the kitchen, the front door whine open.  Smirking to herself, she gets back to putting away the cold stuff.  The door slams and she hears him grumble about a coat as he sets the rest of the bags on the floor.

“I’m not judging, but why did you buy _seven_ cartons of ice cream?” she hears behind her.

“Eight,” she corrects.  “There was a sale, and I thought we could make bourbon floats and play Never Have I Ever.”

He snorts.  “No offence, but _no one_ is gonna play that game with you.”

Letting the fridge door fall closed as she goes to get the rest of the ice cream, she says, “Fair, but rude.”

He just shrugs, _What can you do?_

\--

“I probably like this more than you think is appropriate,” Wynonna murmurs sleepily as he squeezes the tense muscles in her shoulders.

“Yeah, I caught onto that,” he teases.

“As long as you’re aware,” she says with a quick shrug.  She’s pretty sure she’s gonna melt.  This has gone way beyond shameful masturbation fodder and landed right into something she feels like she _needs_ to like _survive_.  So necessary to her very _existence_ , in fact, that she doesn’t even tense up when she hears the door open.  Doesn’t even crack open her eyes.  She just lets her chin sink further into the pillow that had been propping her up where she sits in her spot in front of him.

Footsteps.  A sudden stop.  “So, this is weird,” Waverly says slowly.

“Is it?” Dolls asks calmly.  He presses his knuckles into either side of her neck and she might _die_.

“Yeah, yes,” she replies, and Wynonna can hear the frown in her voice.  “Super freaky weird.”

“Not weird, he owes me,” she says, blissfully relaxed.  He mumbles that you’d think _performing an exorcism_ would be payment enough and she pops, “Nope.”  When she finally _does_ open her eyes, Waverly is looking at her like she’s growing a second head and she doesn’t know how to explain how _fucking awesome_ this is and why she doesn’t have a single shred of self-consciousness over it.

\--

“I need you to help me with something in my bedroom,” Wynonna blurts as soon as she sees Dolls when she gets home that night.  His brow furrows and his head tilts and he opens his mouth and _yeah, okay, she heard it_.  “No—I mean—my back, it hurts,” she explains, rushed and lame.  It’s just a knot, but it’s been there all day, tight and painful and only getting worse and it’s been making it hurt to _breathe_.

“Oh,” he says, face blank.  The silence that stretches between them is possibly one of the more awkward moments in her life.  He finally puts her out of her misery by clearing his throat and waving her on.

“Thank you,” she breathes with probably more relief than is called for.  She catches the way his eyebrows tick upward as she passes him but she doesn’t comment on it because honestly it just sounds like a terrible idea.  Anyway, he _follows_ her and that’s all that matters.  “It’s right here, right,” she says, reaching behind herself to try to touch the spot, but it’s awkward and she hears him chuckle.

“Here?” he asks, closer and quieter and _way_ more intimate than she’d anticipated but touching the wrong spot. 

She shakes her head quickly and croaks, “Um, higher.”

His fingers slide up, over her T-shirt, probing until she can tell he _feels_ it and he huffs, “Jesus, Wynonna.”  He’s suspiciously gentle as he massages the tender spot.  “You need to get on the bed—also, this is probably gonna suck.”

Foolishly, she doubts him.  At first, it’s fine, because he’s still being delicate.  It doesn’t make it feel any _better_ , but it certainly didn’t _suck_.  But then he brings up a knee onto the mattress and _presses_ and—“Shit, shit, that’s worse, never mind,” she whines, clenching her fists.

“I know,” he soothes, easing up a little and letting his fingers moving outward.  “You gotta relax.”

“Easy for you to say,” she mumbles, forcing herself to untense as she lets out a long breath.

\--

Still sore but able to breathe and move about a thousand percent more easily, Wynonna hums to herself as she bangs around the kitchen.  She’s digging too eagerly into her cereal when her sister comes in.  Waves gives her the same bemused look she’s been using on her for, like, a _week_.

“What?  Do I have something on my face?”

“Can, um—can you and Dolls _not_ do weird sex stuff with your door open?” she asks in a rush.  “Like, your voice carries, and…”

“Babygirl,” she says, voice rippling.  “I—you know how _delighted_ I’d be if this were a sex thing.”

Frowning, Waverly counters pointedly, “You were literally moaning, ‘oh, God, right there, don’t stop,’ like ten minutes ago.”

Wynonna’s face goes red and she stammers, “He—yeah, I can, I can see where you’d think it was a sex thing, but it wasn’t a sex thing.”  Nose wrinkling, she looks up at her sister and asks, “Can we stop talking about the non-sex thing?”

With a look like she has no intention of honoring her request, she muses, “Have you thought that maybe you’re acting out by demanding a frankly ridiculous amount of massages because you l—are into him?”

“One, please don’t psych one-oh-one me,” she says, pausing to take another bite.  “And, two, no.  I have never thought that.”  She watches Waves’ face go closed off and immediately feels bad—she knows she’s trying to… help, or something.  “I bought you Fruity Pebbles.”  She knows she knows she’s just trying to deflect, but at least now she doesn’t pursue it.

“Well, I do love Fruity Pebbles did you also—”

“Strawberry milk’s in the fridge.”  Now, at least, Wynonna gets a smile.  “C’mon, breakfast for dinner,” she says, waving her arm grandly at their scarred kitchen table.

“Breakfast for dinner is _pancakes,_ Wyn,” Waverly corrects primly, even as she grabs a bowl.

\--

“Okay,” Dolls says, patting her on the shoulder with one of the punch mitts before yanking them off and tossing them into some dark corner of the barn.  Panting and hunching to rest her hands on her knees, she shakes her head.  “You alright there, Earp?” he taunts.

“Oh, I’m—I’m great,” she gasps, rolling her shoulders as she straightens.  There’s a stitch in her side and her knuckles hurt in spite of the cushioned mitts and heavy wraps, but she’s fantastic.  He’s worked her so hard she can’t even appreciate all the sweaty, heavy-breathing _gorgeousness_ right in front of her.  Thrusting her hands through her wet hair, she waves him forward with a breathless, “C’mon.”

He grins or bares his teeth and comes at her.  She’s getting better at this, she’s fine for a few good minutes before she actually tries to bring him down.  Somehow—and she has _no_ idea how—he gets her on her back and she fights him until she realizes she isn’t gonna win this one, hand smacking flat onto the ground.

“Grapple still needs work,” he says, rolling off of her and onto his ass next to her.

“So I’ve heard,” she tells the ceiling.  To her right, he’s rubbing his wrist.

“Helluva hook, though.”

 _Thanks, I practiced on your ex-boss’s face,_ she doesn’t say.  She sits up, scoots close enough that their shoes knock together, unwraps her fingers.  “Gimme your hand,” she orders, her own flat and expectant.  She feels his sideways look and can’t really hide her smirk. 

Eventually, he does places his hand into hers.  She flips it face-up, spreads his fingers, and he asks, “Are you reading my palm?”

With a quickly-hissed _shh_ , she massages the muscle at the base of his thumb, then over the base of each of his fingers, over every part of his hand.  She’s, like, painfully _aware_ of him watching her and the fact that she can hear every shallow breath.  The angle to stretch his fingers is a little weird, feels too much like holding hands.  When she starts to feel less like she’s giving him a massage and more like she’s assaulting his hand, she asks for the other one.

\--

Now, Wynonna is willing to own that the heels were a little overkill.  In her defense, she _thought_ she was gonna be stuck in the station all day muddling through backed up incident reports (Nicole had looked at her sympathetically, had brought her some pizza in solidarity at lunch).  For most of the day, that’s all it _was_.  Then Lucado left because vaguely mumbled _personal reasons_ and Nedley brought them a case—cue Wynonna marching around Purgatory in heels that are about four inches too tall for supernatural police work.  Waves follows her into the homestead and murmurs about a shower and roughly twelve hours of sleep.  Wynonna kicks the door closed and almost falls on her ass getting those damn shoes _off_ and half-limps into the living room where she finds—knew she’d find—Dolls, looking unfairly showered and relaxed and just _at home_ , Christ.  She should just go to her room and go to _sleep_ or go to her room and rub one out and then go to sleep but instead… instead she flops across the couch and dumps her feet into his lap, all while asking, “Is it weird and out of line to ask you to rub my feet?  Can you do it anyway?”

Instead of answering her, he digs his thumb into the arch of her foot and it makes something almost uncomfortably tingly work its way up her spine.  He seems to wait until she’s turned into goo to ask, altogether too coolly, “Did you ask Lucado to at least get you wet before she screwed you next time?”

“Um, first of all, I said _fucked_ because I’m not twelve,” she replies scathingly, shooting him a look that she’s sure has zero effect because he hasn’t stopped and she can’t muster the heat.  “Tell Waves to tell it to you right next time.”  Little informant.

“You know, if you would just play along—you know the more you play their game, the more likely it is you and Waverly make it outta this alive, right?” he demands.  “They might actually start to let up the reins if you just—”

“Hey, protip?  Fugitives aren’t allowed to deliver the ‘keep your nose clean, Harry,’ speech,” she interrupts, sitting up.

His look goes from serious and maybe a little upset to confused.  “That advice was given by a literal fugitive, I am the only person here technically qualified to give it,” he says dryly.

She holds his gaze for another minute before dropping back against the arm in defeat.  “I’m _trying_ but I, um, really hate her?”

“You, um, really hated me,” he counters.

“Yeah but she’s not my _type_ ,” she laughs jabbing him in the thigh with her toe even as she starts to die inside when she processes what she’s just said.

\--

“So, then she—then she looks at Wynonna and asks, ‘Earp… did you inflate a box of condoms and tape them to my desk?’” Waverly says delightedly.

“It wasn’t me, by the way, I don’t waste perfectly good condoms,” Wynonna butts in, waving her slice of pizza matter-of-factly at Nicole.  Nicole laughs but doesn’t look convinced.  “No way!  Plus, you get the lube on your face… just not a good look.”

Her sister acts embarrassed—may actually be embarrassed—and covers her face, but her shoulders shake.  More beer is delivered and they go quiet.  Wynonna’s eyes are pulled to the TV in the corner, some sitcom playing on mute and she wonders if there isn’t some game on that could be playing.

It’s Nicole who breaks the silence.  “So, like, what’s up with Agent Dolls?”

“Ex-Agent Dolls—I think when they decide to send your ass to a shady ghost prison where you’ll indefinitely await trial for treason it’s pretty much as clear as you can get for, like, severance,” Wynonna says, wincing.  “What do you mean ‘what’s up’ anyway?  Just our super-hot dragon roommate who lives in our barn.”

Initially, Wynonna was glad to be going out with the two of them because, in spite of their disgusting rom-com bullshit, they’re great to hang out with and basically the only people who like her most of the time.  Now, both of them looking at her with twin looks of doubt and dismay, she’s not so sure.

“Wynonna is in denial,” Waverly explains sweetly.

“Wynonna asked you not to use your Intro to Psychology textbook against her,” Wynonna returns, eyes narrowed.  “The takeaway here is that Waverly is the one who vandalized Lucado’s desk.”

Nicole looks over at Waverly, eyes wide.

“Jeremy helped.”

\--

Listen, she’s imagined it—of course she has.  She’s imagined a hundred different ways this ever could or would happen.  She’s _fantasized_ about the day one of them beat him.  She _never_ thought he’d _throw a game_ because he was too much of a wuss to lay R-G-Y after a free O.

“Do it, do it, do it,” she urges, smiling so hard it hurts and tugging his sleeve with every syllable.

“You’re supposed to be keeping score, Wyn, not helping him,” Waves complains. 

Dolls looks moderately offended that she thinks he’d need _Wynonna’s_ help playing Scrabble—she can tell by the incredulous furrow in his brow.  “I’m not helping,” she says eventually, drumming the eraser end of her pencil on the score pad on her knee.  “I’m just the angel on his shoulder telling him the right thing to do.”

To be fair, she’s been trying to get him to play legitimately dirty words—the reason she’d been banned from any further games, in fact—but, in this case, she’s _right_ because Jeremy has both him and Waverly beat, but if he gets the triple-letter on the Y he wins.  She knows he knows he wins, but he won’t do it. 

“Seems like an unfair advantage,” Jeremy says with that big smile that she tries to hate.

“Next game, you can sit next to her and see if you think it’s an advantage,” Dolls grumbles.  He picks up his G and she sighs because she _knew_ he wouldn’t do it and now he’s gonna lose.  There’s no reason for her to be this invested in his game, but here she is, leaning close to his shoulder and, very occasionally, slacking on her math.  Suddenly, he sets it back down in favor of doing—holy _tits_ , doing _exactly_ what she’d told him to.

When he snaps down the Y, all any of them can do is gape until she hears, “Wow, Wynonna is a _really_ bad influence.”

She can’t even pay attention to that, though, because Dolls is grinning right into her face, that eyebrow-raised, crooked smile that’s _almost_ smug enough to encourage a right hook.  Her heart jumps somewhere up under her throat and her face flushes—and she has to turn her attention back to the pad in her lap.  She takes longer than she needs to, strictly speaking, before wincing at the others, “Yeah, he wins.”

Waverly narrows her eyes but, thank god, says nothing.

\--

This wasn’t planned.  She had only asked because he was outside when she got back to the homestead—and it had been a bad day, anyway.  And she felt like she’d been suspended in dread for months and that hair-tingling wasn’t getting any better.  And he was just _there_ in the almost-dusk and she realized she didn’t wanna hang out without him.  So, she’d mentioned _Ghostbusters_ and he’d asked which one and she’d said, in a tone she _hoped_ conveyed just how ridiculous a question she thought it was, “The one where I don’t have to watch Dan Aykroyd get a handy from a ghost.” 

That was, like, five minutes ago.  Once she’s gotten into her pajamas and stopped freaking out—she’s watched roughly a thousand movies with the guy at this point, why on earth would it be suddenly weird?—she finds him inspecting something on the mantle.

“Waves keeps redecorating,” she says lamely.

His hand falls to his side and when he turns he’s wearing that look that means he’s trying to stay carefully neutral.  She wrinkles her nose and busies herself with getting the movie going and pretends there isn’t a singing frog doing a jittery tap-dance where her heart’s supposed to be.  Out of habit, she drops onto the middle of the couch, maybe a foot away from him.  He’s looking at her—she can _feel it_ —but she’s _really_ focused on trying to scratch the part of her back where her errant bra hooks had dug into her skin.  She hears him huff a quick breath before her hand is knocked away and _oh, yeah, that’s the spot_ —she bursts into giddy laughter when she realizes she’d actually _moaned_ that. 

At least he has the good grace to laugh, too. 

“I didn’t lure you in here so I could take advantage of your hands,” she says when his nails keep dragging over the middle of her back.

“I know,” he responds simply.  His motions slow before he asks, “Do you want me to stop?”

She looks back at him and his unreadable face, and winces, “Well, I mean, now that you’ve started…”

\--

“I want you to know,” Wynonna sighs blissfully, “That I am not keeping track of these.” 

Dolls snorts.  “I want _you_ to know it’s adorable you thought _I_ thought you were,” he says, scratching at her scalp.  And that… sorta sounds like the kind of thing that would be an opener for a conversation that’s wanted to be had for a while now, but she’s too happily relaxed to _want_ to bother opening that can of worms. 

The conversation would just complicate things.  Everything is already complicated—Purgatory is complicated, Black Badge let loose a metric goddamn shit-ton of non-native demons, she’s pretty sure one of the four people in the world who like her is actually a pod person.  She doesn’t _need_ anything on top of it.  _He_ doesn’t need anything on top of it!  Neither of them need the, like, unnecessary bullshit.  She’s decided.  Or, at least, that’s what she tells herself every time the conversation starts rearing its ugly head.  It’s working out alright so far.

She thinks.

After a while, she starts to realize he’s not really massaging her scalp so much as he’s combing through her hair, so slow and so gentle it makes something in her chest flutter.  His fingers stroke down either side of her neck, then up, tracing her jaw.  He’s just _touching her_ , she realizes, breath going shallow.  She frowns until his fingers pass over her brow, down the tip of her nose, and she can’t suppress the soft snort at that—it’s not funny, but it’s _weird._   It takes her a while to open her eyes.  When she does, the spell is broken and his hands still.  There’s something in his eyes she can’t quite figure out, and he holds her gaze for a while, and it should be weird and uncomfortable but she feels a little bit frozen.  His thumb is pressed into her chin.

Eventually, she clears her throat and uses his knee to push up off the floor and onto the couch.

They don’t talk about it.

\--

This isn’t _entirely_ her fault, she reasons.  The… like the getting drunk, that was her fault, and stumbling into the barn at nearly three in the morning was _also_ her fault, but she _never_ would have woken Dolls up had he not been so _frustratingly perfect_ and had she not needed to tell him that _right then_.  And had he not been so frustratingly perfect _and_ groggy and beautiful, she never would have kissed him.

It’s thin, and she’s not convinced, but she tries.

There’s the sting of rejection, the burn of humiliation, the fact that she was wrong, again, so wrong.  Her immediate reaction is to pretend it never happened.  He seems to be going with it, so maybe it’s the right reaction.  She knows Waverly knows something’s up, but so far she’s been lucky enough to avoid actually talking about how much of a _dumbass_ she is.  So, they fall into a familiar routine, and nothing really has to change, except she’s spent the better part of the last two months getting used to just being touched by him and she’s got the weight of _every touch_ on her now.

She also, obviously, does not ask him for any more massages.

Sometimes, though, she thinks he wants to say something and she thinks she almost wants him to.  She wonders if there’s, like, a viable spell to help her go back in time and punch her drunk self in the _face_ for ruining this really good thing they had going.  It probably wouldn’t work, anyway.  It’d end up like a bad Syfy movie.

So, for, like, two weeks, she just stews in this and tries to pretend she’s _not_ stewing in it which means she ends up saying, “What?  I’m awesome,” a lot, each time admittedly sounding a _little_ moody.  Which, now that she thinks about it, is probably why everyone else is inexplicably _missing_ tonight.   She stabs half-heartedly at the damn near monochromatic frozen ball of pasta and veggies she’s pretty sure Dolls bought purely to make her sad and is pretty deep into a mope when the door opens.  She’s disgusted when she realizes she knows it’s him by the sound of his _footsteps_. 

“Thirty-eight,” he says.  When she looks up, he’s leaning entirely too casually in the doorway.

“What are we doing here?” she asks quietly.  “I need a hint.”

“I owe you thirty-eight massages.”  It’s said so simply and so neutrally she almost doesn’t think about it, but she watches his smile grow.

“Can I get them all at once?” she replies, pleasantly surprised to find her voice even.  As he comes closer, she steps back until she hits the counter.

“I think that’s called something else,” he says, breath ghosting over her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're asking yourself, "Did Dolls pull a number out of his ass or did he actually keep track of every time he got to touch her?" the answer is Yes! Chapter 2 has sex only because it didn't match like the pacing and like... shit I had going on in the initial story but I'll be _damned_ if I'm not gonna include the porn just because of that.
> 
> Also, the AU is that Nonna isn't pregnant because I was halfway through this fic when the Reveal happened.
> 
> By the wayyy, please swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) and talk to me about these nerds.
> 
> \--
> 
> Edit: I know I said I was gonna do the sex as a second chapter but it got away from me and didn't feel right as another chapter when it should be it's own story as a continuation so that's a thing!


End file.
